


Wooing.

by Tammany



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Changing Leads, Gen, Love, M/M, Parity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-23
Updated: 2019-07-23
Packaged: 2020-07-12 11:23:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,023
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19945375
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tammany/pseuds/Tammany
Summary: If one posits that Aziraphale takes the lead at first, one must also admit that Crowley is unlikely to leave it that way for long. These two are a balanced couple...and they're going to pass the lead back and forth over time.Crowley Gets His Groove Back...and Aziraphale's just fine with that.





	Wooing.

The first time they made love, Aziraphale led the way, with a calm, resolute tenderness that suggested that the angel had concluded that this was on him—and then planned accordingly. He unfolded his intentions with steady certainty, like doom descending.

Crowley, of course, panicked. He evaded, distracted, and deflected in a wild attitudinal Katherine Hepburn whirlwind. He swanned around, flailing. He stalked away, scowling. He came rocketing back, ostensibly to have further words—but covertly because he hoped the angel would continue his seduction. In the end, when he was brought to a standstill against the Entirely Fraudulent Prophesies shelf of Aziraphale’s bookstore—when angelic hands drew him to a stop, and angelic lips silenced his chatter—he folded, transforming like origami magic from threatening serpent to shivering, bashful dove, shaking in his lover’s arms.

It remained that way for many days and nights. The demon Crowley had dwelt long among the Fallen, and his confidence was more external than internal. To be loved shattered him—in good ways, but still. It took him apart in ways he could not have guessed and struggled to express.

For some time he found it difficult to even pretend to being cool in the presence of his beloved. He felt (with crawling dismay) like a Broadway ingénue about to break out into the inevitable “I’ll love you until the stars die” solo intro to the concluding duet. A smile from his angel, the touch of his angel’s hand, the sparkle in his mossy-green-blue eyes, all could bring him to a stop, words slowing like cold Lyle’s Golden Syrup, motions stopping altogether, the better to just stare at his lover. And stare. And stare…smitten.

Needless to say, the demon was determined to turn the tables. It got on his last Satanic nerve. All his own sighing, wilting, overwhelmed vulnerability was, if not quite unwelcome, at least enough to snap the poor bastard out of a solid sleep, serpent eyes staring horrified into the dark of the bedroom, breath gasping, panic-attack full-blown and terrifying. How could he function without his cool?

At the very least he wanted, just once, to watch his angel melt and let go…for him. Aziraphale was having entirely too much fun sweeping his demon off his feet…metaphorically. In truth, Crowley was a bit too large, long, and gangly to carry around, much less carry off to Aziraphale’s upstairs bedroom, by way of the skinny, deadly Victorian stairs.

The point was, Crowley muttered to himself, two bottles into a solo drunk, the point was…no. Not whales. Somethin’ about, whossis…parity. Thass it. Parity. Great big whomping no-holds-barred parity, with green feathers and sharp beaks and balloons and cake and presents and scales in balance and everything you need to have the biggest, boldest, fairest fairness of equality that any parity ever delivered. That kinda parity, complete with singing and parity games. He needed to swagger up to that angel with his big green parity on his shoulder and a balloon in his hand, with his glasses being majorly cool, and he needed to counter-seduce that angel until he bloody well swooned on the nearest swooning couch, all smitten eyes and melting ice cream smiles! After which he’d set the green parity and the balloon to one side, feed his angel a bit of strengthening parity cake, and then proceed to show him that sauce for the demon was sauce for the angel and so there! Ha!

Of course, he had to sober up first. But that’s easier for demons and angels than for most of us—unfair, but that’s canon.

So, Crowley determined to rise up, grow a pair, and claim his rightful role as THE Demon Lover of his Unnatural Pairing. No more smitten kitten. No. Time for some swagger. Time for some style.

It didn’t come together as quickly as he’d hoped, not least because he free associated to “Froggy Went A Wooing,” and was soon carrying on about “With a Crowley-Powley, gammon and spinach, hi-ho!, says Anthony Crowley!” It was a lyrical muddle that was somewhere between a Lady Mondegrass and a filk, but which was absolutely an earworm that refused to be exorcised, outshouting even Queen as the demon drove around London trying to plan the perfect seduction.

“Hey, Mister Mousie won’t you marry me,  
Do-dah, do-dah,  
Hey, Mister Mousie won’t you marry me,  
With a sword and a pistol on my knee,  
What-ho, for Anthony Crowley!”

He’d need a new outfit, he thought. His angel liked style, after all. He himself tended to quaint style—style that begged for words like “dapper” and “adorable,” rather than “dashing,” or “dangerous.” But he seemed to appreciate dashing and dangerous. Didn’t he? Or if not—why spend so much attention to Crowley? (Who was struggling subconsciously with a verse in which his serpent self ate his frog self while his human-ish demon self kept shouting “Wait-what? cries Anthony Crowley!”)

No. No. He wasn’t going there. Down that path lay madness—not to mention a complete wardrobe do-over, and Crowley suspected he would reduce even the sunny Tan to weeping surrender if the Queer Eye team attempted the job. He was cool—or cool enough for his Mister Aziramousie. He just needed a quick freshen-up shopping trip.

London’s fashion establishments did survive. There was a business slowdown that lasted the week, and any number of helpful clerks were reduced to tears and smelling salts before the demon was done. But in the end he was satisfied. His hair was a tumble of waved russet fringe over his brow, begging to be tousled, the rest sleeked back into a neat plaited tail at the nape of his neck, the better for an angel to clutch tight and grip as he found himself masterfully kissed. A deceptively simple charcoal-black long-sleeved jersey with a low neckline displayed the elegant construction of neck and shoulder and collarbone, all framed in the subtle sheen and glorious texture of knit silk. This was further framed by a shining black brocade waistcoat, and a perfectly tailored black-leather dress jacket, matched by black-leather trousers he’d put on wet—and planned in advance with a minor “rapid change” removal miracle. His boots were Italian, and made his feet look a good six inches longer than they really were. He’d found a new pair of black lensed glasses, with a bar-top frame perfect for glancing over, eyes glowing gold.

He’d done away with a tie entirely, instead relying on a single earring of gold and black pearl.

The angel, he thought, was going to plotz. Just lie down fanning himself and plotz.

The idea pleased Crowley no end.

Indeed, it pleased him enough he broke out in a short-term spontaneous relapse of his own smitten status, and he had to take a quick “nap,” followed by a cold shower, before he was able to return to the problem at hand.

“Angel,” he said, calling Aziraphale over his mobile, “I’m planning an outing. How would you feel about a picnic?”

On the other end he could almost hear his target cheer up and brighten. “Oooh! How delightful!” Then, more cautiously, “Is this a tin of IPA and a torpedo sandwich from Sainsbury’s eaten at a bus stop, or should I expect something a bit more Lawful Good?”

“Lawful Neutral in fancy dress. Champagne cooling in a cooling bucket. Music by clever planning. Angel-vision needed to overcome the light pollution, but if you can get past that it’s supposed to be a good night for shooting stars.”

“Oooh! Very nice! I’ll be there with bells on!”

“Nnnno. Not the bells, angel. Bring a blanket and wear something you won’t weep over if you end up with grass-stains. Eight. Hyde Park. The bandstand.”

“Ahh—the old familiar places,” Crowley sighed, in sentimental overdrive. “Certainly.”

Crowley smiled to himself. At last, he seemed to have his cool back.

“Froggie got his groove back and he did ride,  
Do-da, do-da,  
Froggie got his groove back and he did ride,  
All the do-da-day!  
Froggie ride all day, Froggie ride all night,  
Please, Mister Mousie won’t you marry me,  
Hup-ho!, shouts Anthony Crowley!”

It was just reaching dusk at eight. The air was tender, tinted with the first promise of night. Crowley looked up as his angel turned the corner and approached the bandstand, shining in the blossoming darkness.

His heart nearly stopped. Angel…his angel! He felt his fingers knit tight, white-knuckled around the handle of his picnic basket.

Oh-oh-oh, he thought, as his heart thundered and his stomach roiled. Oh, he’d mis-planned so dreadfully. He’d assumed if he worked it out in advance his own natural cool would trump his adoration… But…

The angel had dressed in his own unique motley. Crowley knew each item, and could pin the era it came from—or, in a few cases, the original had come from and been reproduced to match.

There was a shirt from the Cavalier era—cotton rather than linen, crisp and trim, with ruffled, lace-trimmed sleeves and a matching cravat-style tie that filled in the throat of a tawny Elizabethan sleeveless doublet worked in silk and shot with gold and bronze. The box lappets of the skirt sleeked over the angel’s hips, showing the incredible beauty of his soft, graceful figure. His trousers were darker than his shirt or his doublet, cinnamon brown, leaving his upper body pale and shining. He wore buffed, beautiful ankle-boots that set off wide, wedge-shaped feet, solid and secure beneath him. His hair shone white, and…

Oh. Oh, Crowley thought. Oh. I’m doomed.

Mousie went a wooing and Froggie plotzed….

Aziraphale had come in full angelic formal. Framing his body, the faintest ghost of his wings shone in the twilight, and above his tempest of curls a halo glowed.

“Oh, angel,” Crowley croaked. He put the picnic basket down, barely aware of what he was doing. “Oh, my angel.” He moved forward, as his angel approached him, until they met at one of the entrances to the bandstand.

Words were gone. Heigh-ho, says Anthony Crowley? Lost from his memory entirely. There was only his angel…beautiful angel, eyes huge, beautiful in the coming night.

God had given up on nightingales—which were entirely too subtle a cue in London in any case. But Crowley had made things easy. In the auditorium across the park the first notes of Scheherazade rose on the night air, drama and romance and tender sweetness all in one thrilling rush.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale whispered, bashful and longing.

Shy.

His angel was shy. It called to something in Crowley. His hand rose, gripped the back of Aziraphale’s neck, pulled him close. He kissed him, taking charge, leading the dance.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale’s voice gasped, breath stolen, heart pounding under Crowley’s other hand.

A chuckle rose, and Crowley nosed behind his angel’s ear. “Hush. I’m wooing.”

“What?”

“Wooing.” He turned them both, led them into the bandstand. He parted just long enough to take the blanket draped over Aziraphale’s arms. Then, instead of sinking to the ground, he swept his angel into his arms, turned him in a formless dance as the music cascaded through the park. He cast miracles right, left, and center, turning the little bandstand into a perfectly private and hidden fairy-glade, sparkling with lights and shimmering.

Aziraphale melted. He sighed. He was bashful, and shy, and helpless in the hands of his beloved.

Angel hands crept up. One tousled Crowley's russet fringe. The other clutched a foxy plait, fisting in the nape of Crowley's neck as Aziraphale was masterfully kissed.

Somewhere a balloon drifted toward the night sky. Somewhere a green parrot screamed tropical cries. Somewhere parity was achieved.

“I love you, angel,” the demon said, tenderly tracing his lover’s face.

“I love you, too,” the angel responded, leaning his face on sleek black leather, soft as a driving glove. He allowed his lover to lower him down, to sink beside him, to turn him and touch him, and together they swooned onto a fainting couch, and lay together in love.

“You planned all this,” the angel whispered.

“I did,” said Anthony Crowley.


End file.
